The Path Not Taken
by Medieval Scribe
Summary: Edith is a bit lost after Mary's wedding, but she comes to a decision that will change her life.
1. Chapter 1: Prologue: London 1924

Prologue: London 1924

Edith Crawley steps over the curb, a hand on her head to keep her new cloche from flying off in the wind. She's been gone too long, and London weather, while always fickle, seems downright cruel now. It starts to drizzle, and she regrets not wearing a proper coat, but there's a measure of freedom in making her own decisions, even silly ones.

Just a few yards from her aunt's house, she pulls a slim cigarette case out of her bag and lights up, her hands shaking from the cold wet that surrounds her. She takes a long drag and exhales, and just like that, the noises around her still. In the silence, she can feel the city, its heartbeat thrumming through her soles. She can taste its joy, but also its aching loneliness, in the fat drops of rain that fall on her face. She longs to speak to the city, to _know_ it.

A car horn bleats, startling her into dropping the cigarette. She grinds it into the pavement and ignores the horn. She reaches into the bag to salvage another smoke, but when the noise persists, she hisses and wheels around, careening into the man behind her.

Edith looks up, startled. "Sir Anthony." She takes the elbow he offers and rights herself, the cigarette she's holding almost as limp as she is. "I didn't know you were in London."

"Oh, I don't come often. But I did have some business with my bank."

"Nothing...unpleasant, I hope."

"No, no. No more than usual." He smiles in his usual way, friendly but diffident and she's struck by how different he is to the men she now keeps company with. They're young, sparkling things, full of good humour, but rather full of themselves too. Sir Anthony's older and grown dull with age. But there's a solidity to him, a sense of substance that draws her in.

"Have you been in London long?"

"No. Just a few days, really." She pauses, trying to read his face. But he's polite and inscrutable. "I go back to America in a week."

"Ah, yes. And how is Mrs. Levinson?"

"She's well. Happy to not have me under foot, I'm sure."

He smiles politely. "And you? You're well?"

It's an innocent question, but he doesn't meet her eyes. That's unusual, and it sets her thinking about how he must see her now, all uncovered legs and unlit cigarette.

She decides to abandon a lifetime of restraint and waves a hand at herself. "You…disapprove?"

"No, no. Not at all." He pauses, awkward. "I think you should be what you are, Lady Edith. What makes you happy." His words are simple, innocent even, but when Edith's mind catches up, it is plain what he's asking. _Are you happy?_.

To that, she has no answer, no bluster to cover with. They lapse into a silence that Edith cannot bring herself to break.

Sir Anthony does it for her. "Well, I'll be off then."

He doffs his hat and heads back to his car, and Edith feels an odd pang. It's the loss of a chance, a dream dissolving in the cold morning light.

She finds her voice and croaks out a few words. "It's so good to see you again, Sir Anthony."

"And you."


	2. Chapter 2: Part I:A Drive in the Country

**Part I. A Drive in the Country**

_Downton Abbey_  
February 1921

Wedding preparations are in full swing, and with the ladies Grantham in charge, things run to military precision, as her father frequently says. Edith smarts a bit at the comparison, her mind filled with memories of the poor souls who drifted in and out of Downton during the war.

But this is a happy time, and Edith is glad for Mary, and for Cousin Matthew. She knows they deserve their happiness, after all the gloom and despair of the past. But her joy has a tinge of regret, an edge of envy that Providence should solve all of Mary's problems in such an uncomplicated way.

Then there's Sybil. At Cora's behest-command, really-she's back at Downton, swollen, tired, yet somehow still lovely. The fire of rebellion has cooled, but Sybil and Branson have genuine affection for each other, and her sister remains as calm as she's ever been. Edith is happy to have her back.

Still, it's stifling to be around so much happiness without being able to share in any of it.

At first, she distracts herself with other projects, big and small. Cousin Isobel recruits her to help with her Red Cross work, and for a time, Edith feels useful, even needed. But Isobel is brisk, efficient, and antiseptically dull, and after only a month, Edith is out of her mind with boredom. A timely invitation from Rosamund is the perfect remedy, and she jumps at the chance.

Rosamund takes her to parties and teas, and Edith, always polite but carefully indifferent, plays the dutiful Crawley to perfection. She is rewarded with the lukewarm attention of several young men, but they're as insipid as she pretends to be, and she tires quickly of the whole charade.

She returns to Downton just two weeks later, but the ease of her return bothers her. Downton is home, of course, and there's a certain comfort in knowing she's always welcome. But it's too comfortable, and she begins to relish it, this singular chance to feel sorry for herself. Only Violet's sharp voice draws her back. _Don't wallow, Edith. It's. Not. Done._

By April, Downton Abbey is a madhouse. Its stone floors feel the rushing tread of too many feet, and the walls echo with the tumult of Mary's wedding. The event is almost at hand, and only the small details remain.

The uproar does not touch all their lives though. Edith is amused by the way their father remains unfazed. At breakfast, he's lost in the newspaper and pays no attention to the conversation around him. Mary and Cora make use of the morning quiet to conspire over the wedding. Edith strains to hear, but most of it escapes her, and she shrugs it off with only mild annoyance. She has other things on her mind anyway.

"Papa, would it be alright if I took the car out for a bit?"

Robert looks up, distracted. "Eh? Well, yes. I'm sure it's fine."

Mary raises an eyebrow, suspicious. "Where will you be going?"

"Nowhere in particular. I just thought I'd go out for a spin. A good motor does want driving from time to time."

Mary is unconvinced, but Robert merely shrugs and Cora sighs, a disapproving frown on her brow. "Edith, I do wish you wouldn't drive around by yourself."

_Not this again_. This is a good a time as any to remind her mother that driving by herself reduces the odds of eloping with the driver, but Edith's natural restraint and years of training give her pause.

Cora smiles in a weary way. "I'm sure you'll be fine. I just worry."

Her mother's concern for her welfare, ever-present but so rarely shown, gives Edith a small burst of joy. But to indulge it is undignified, so Edith swallows down the sentiment, ignoring the lump in her throat. She clucks her tongue in feigned annoyance. "Oh, Mama, really. It is 1921, you know."

"Be back by luncheon, will you?" Mary added. "I need to go into Ripon."

Edith ignores Mary and slides away from the table. They've been in a state of truce since Sybil's rushed wedding in Dublin, and for her part, Edith even enjoys Mary's company now and then. But the wedding has put her sister on edge, and Edith decides to give Mary a wide berth.

She goes out the back way and down the kitchen stairs, slipping the key off its hook by the kitchen. If the staff notices Edith's presence, they make no fuss over it. The novelty of seeing her drive off by herself had worn off during the war, and nobody except Cora—thinks it strange anymore. She quickens her steps, but she's barely at the motor when she spies a familiar figure shining the bonnet with his shirt sleeve.

"Branson! I didn't expect to find you here, of all places. Thought you'd be keeping Sybil company."

"She's asleep." He smiles genially, but his voice has a clear edge. "You should really call me Tom, now I'm your brother. "

She does not oblige. "Missing your old job, were you?"

"Not quite." His expression is polite, but the set of his mouth is tight and his shoulders tense. Edith feels new sympathy for him. _If Downton is difficult for the Crawley girls..._

Branson pats the car's top gently. "Just checking if you're taking good care of her."

"We take it—_her_—to the garage in Malton, and one of the footmen gives it a good wipe down every week. No trouble so far." He nods and with that, they run out of things to say to each other.

"Well, I should be going then. Mary needs the car back soon."

"I could drive you," he says with a smirk. "Just like old times."

"No. I'm quite capable of driving myself, you know. Besides, I'm off to see a friend and it wouldn't be right to keep you, my _brother_, waiting."

Branson raises an eyebrow at her. "Ah, a _friend_? I see." He bows theatrically as he opens the car door for her. "Don't let me stand in your way."

Edith slides behind the wheel and rolls her eyes. "It's not like that. Nothing _tawdry_."

"Never said it was." He shuts the door and winks at her through the glass. "But don't worry. Your secret's safe with me."

–00-

To escape the house and her own dark moods, Edith drives, sometimes to Ripon, but mostly just wherever the road takes her. Driving by herself, conquering machine and distance, gives her a sense of power she's never had before. She enjoys the feel of the motor beneath her feet and the way the wheels crunch the gravel. It's just warm enough now to have the top down, and as the wind stirs her hair, she feels free.

She's driving in the countryside, but this time with a specific goal. As the car crests the hill, the Strallan manse, with its stately red brick facade and tidy gardens come into view. Edith is not certain she's welcome. Since Christmas, he's refused most invitations to Downton, probably to put distance between himself and her. But if Edith has inherited anything at all from her American mother, it is determination, and she's not about to give up.

She pulls up in front of the house and sits still for a moment, stealing herself for the awkwardness that lies ahead. She's sure Sir Anthony still has affection for her, and with a little persuasion, he might come to see things her way.

A footman leads her into the library, but there's no sign of Sir Anthony himself. The room is not as large as the library at Downton, and the collection of books much smaller. But Sir Anthony's more erudite than her father, if the titles of the books are anything to go by. She picks up a slim volume of a French book, only to discover it's full of drawings and equations, most of which she can't decipher.

"I didn't know you had any interest in engines, Lady Edith."

Edith startles and claps the book shut. "No, I...well, I suppose I've been caught out."

"No, no."

She waves the book in front of her. "Engines?"

"Yes." He takes it from her and thumbs through it, pointing to a particular drawing. "They're called jet engines. It's all just theory at this point. But if they can get it to work, we'll have machines that can fly at great speed over long distances. Much faster than the RAF planes did in the war. They'll even carry a load passengers. Like a train. Maybe even all the way from London to Paris. To America!"

"That's...rather hard to believe."

Sir Anthony laughs and sets the book back down. "Everything is hard to believe until it's right in front of you, I suppose."

Edith wonders if this was her opening. "Yes, quite. I-"

"So. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well, I thought maybe you'd like to take a drive with me."

Sir Anthony's smile is wan. "I thought we'd put this argument to rest."

_You__ might have._ Edith takes in a long breath, determined. "Here's the thing. The more you refuse, the more I'm inclined to keep asking. I imagine that will become rather tiresome, and very quickly."

Sir Anthony chuckles, a friendly sound that relieves the tension in the room. "Well, how about a compromise then? We'll take a walk in the garden."

Edith allows herself to be led out of the house and into the garden. Sir Anthony walks beside her, but does not offer his arm or take her hand. She keeps her expression pleasant, but inwardly she quails, worried that she's overstepped and is about to be dressed down, however gentle he might be about it.

"You must think me terribly forward."

"No, not at all." They stop in front of a particularly well-tended hedgerow. "Is everything in order for the wedding?"

"Oh, yes. Everything is near perfect. Exactly as Mary would want it."

"Yes, I'm sure. Lady Mary does seem rather a perfectionist."

Edith makes a face. "I think she's very determined to get things her way, no matter the cost."

He acknowledges her words with a polite nod and turns his attention back to the garden. They make two tours around the roses and find their way to a small trestle table before Sir Anthony speaks gain.

"Lady Edith, would you mind if I were to be very plain with you?"

"You always are."

"Yes, well." He hesitates, shuffling his good arm from one side to the other. "You seem to be in some sort of contest with your sister, and I'm not sure I want to be part of it."

"If this is about what happened before, so many years ago, I assure you there was nothing to it. It really was just Mary trying to-"

He holds up a hand. "Let me put this another way." He's interrupted by the footman bringing tea, but once the man retires, Sir Anthony's serious expression returns.

"I was married before, as you know. I was rather lucky in that Maud was as fond of me as I was of her."

Edith stares into her teacup, sure she knows what's coming, but unsure of any good will come of it.

But there's honesty in his eyes when he speaks, and that's so rare a thing in her life that Edith has to look away in guilt.

"I make no secret that I like you, Edith. But I'm too old now to take a chance on someone who might not like me quite as much."

"I assure you, Sir Anthony, that is not-"

"Please. I'm not accusing you of anything." He speaks with a sort of quiet confidence that makes Edith feel even smaller. "It's just that you're very young, and your world is very small. I think you should know what you really want."

His words are soft, but even cushioned by his politeness, their sting is unmistakable.

He pats her hand gently. "I don't mean to be unkind, and I hope you'll forgive me. But you can't marry me just to keep up with your sisters. Marriage is meant to be for the rest of your life, and it would be a bad thing indeed if you did it for the wrong reason."

–00-

Tension is the main course at dinner that night. The entire house is holding its breath, a silent if fervent prayer for a smooth, uneventful wedding. Cora is wearing a smile, but it's stretched thinly across her face, more a sign of exhaustion than joy. Mary seems nervous, shuffling her feet in a very un-Mary-like way, and even their father is on edge. In his case, though, it has nothing to do with the wedding, and everything to do with having Tom Branson seated next to him. With the exception of Sybil, nobody is quite sure how to be around him, and even Carson does not seem his usual unflappable self.

For his part, Tom attempts to engage Edith in conversation a few times, but she can't hear him over the din of her own thoughts. When dinner is done and they've walked through to the drawing room, she sees for the first time that she's worried her skirt with her hand through most of dinner. Sighing, she smoothes the wrinkles out, glad nobody had taken much notice.

Most of the after-dinner conversation is idle chatter about nothing in particular, everyone tiptoeing around topics that might force Tom into the conversation. To her credit, Sybil pretends not to notice any of it, and Tom keeps to himself, content to flip through the pages of a book without actually reading it. Edith tries to join in the conversation, but she's distracted, and after a bit of effort, she gives up and settles for silence. It's not until Sybil nudges her politely that she realizes she was being spoken to.

"We were wondering, Edith," Mama begins, her tone soft but pointed, "where you were this morning. You were gone a long time."

Without time to consider her answer properly, Edith blurts out the truth. "I paid a visit to Sir Anthony Strallan-"

"Sir Anthony Strallan?" Mary chortles. "Oh, Edith. Surely even _you're_ not that desperate."

"Mary!"

Cora's voice, full of indignation and reproach, cuts through the room. Abruptly, Edith excuses herself, ignoring Sybil's whispered entreaty to stay. Tears, hot with shame, sting her eyes as she runs up the stairs. She throws herself on her bed, a flood of tears washing away her resolve and determination, leaving only bitterness and regret behind.

–00-

A soft knock at her door rouses Edith out of the doze she's fallen into, still in her dinner clothes. She rubs at her eyes and mutters weakly at the door as it swings open to admit Anna, a tray in her hand.

"Excuse me, Lady Edith. I thought maybe you'd want a glass of milk." She sets the tray down by the bed, her brow creased with worry. "I could help you get ready for bed now, if you like."

Edith rubs at her forehead, confused. "Yes, I—oh, I must look a state."

"No, not at all, my lady." Edith lets Anna wipe off her tear-stained face and help her into her nightclothes. Her anger recedes, replaced by a welcome numbness. She closes her eyes to shut out the day's events, willing it all to have been a bad dream, but she's interrupted by another knock at the door. This time, it's Sybil ducking her head in the door.

"Are you...all right?"

Edith nods weakly and waves Sybil in as Anna lets herself out. She watches her sister for a moment, noting how tired she looks. "You really shouldn't be up so late."

"Oh, stop. I'm not an invalid." She slumps on to Edith's bed, a hand on her belly. "But I think I'll have a sit down."

She gives Edith a pointed look. "I know Mary can be cruel sometimes, but I don't think she really means it."

Edith snorts. "Of course she does."

"No, really." Sybil hesitates, shifting on the bed and picking at the covers. "But sometimes she's right."

"As in this time?"

Sybil shrugs. "Maybe. Or not. What I mean is, you don't have to rush off to get married. There's more to life than that."

"So say you. Mrs. Branson."

Sybil manages a smirk. "All right. I deserved that. But my life is the one I chose, and it's very different than the one I had here."

She leans forward, more animated than she's been in a long while. "In Dublin, I have my own house. I do all my own cooking and cleaning. And I'm wretched at it." Her eyes laugh as she speaks, and Edith feels her sister's happiness as if it's a tangible thing.

"So you feel free now?"

"Yes, exactly. So could you be." She frowns. "If only you weren't so determined to be just like Mary."

"It's not like that. It's just-"

Sybil shakes her head and is about to speak as the door opens and Mary walks into the room.

Edith rolls her eyes. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I came to ask you about the flowers for the wedding."

"What?"

"Oh, Edith, really. I'm here to apologize, of course. As hard as that may be for you to believe."

Edith stares her down until Mary relents and looks away. She sits down at Edith's desk. "Sybil's right, you'd be better if you weren't always cutting off your own nose to spite your face." She smiles wryly. "Or to spite _my_ face."

She meets Edith's eyes evenly. "And as for what I said after dinner, I shouldn't have. Sir Anthony is a gentleman, and a kind one. I dare say he'll make a perfect husband for someone like you."

"For someone like me? What does that mean?"

Mary hisses in frustration. "You make it so hard to talk to you sometimes, do you know that?"

Edith crosses her arms, indignant. "If this is your idea of an apology-"

"No." Mary holds her forehead for a moment. "Just let me get all the words out for once." She strides over to the bed and sits down, looking Edith square in the eye. "The thing is, I may not always like you. But you are my sister. And if you decide you want to marry Sir Anthony, then I'll be glad for you, even stand up for you, if you like. And that's all there is to it."

Edith feels the weight of her misery in full force, and she sinks down onto the bed. "Well, you needn't worry about that. He doesn't want me." She covers her face with her hands and begins to sob.

"Oh, Edith." For the first time in years, Edith feels her sisters reach out to her and she welcomes it, the perfect balm for all her pain.

(TBC)


	3. Chapter 3: Part II: A Ride by the Shed

**Part II. A Ride by the Shed**

Mary's wedding is a grand affair, a fitting conclusion to a perfect spring that turns to joyous summer when Sybil's daughter is born. The baby is a healthy, squealing delight for everyone at Downton, and even Edith is entranced. But the idyll is short-lived and soon, Branson and Sybil return to Dublin, taking their bundle of happiness with them.

The house grows quiet. With Mary living at Crawley House and Sybil gone, Edith gets the full force of her parents' attention, but for once, she's uncertain if she really wants it. She's torn between wanting to hew to them, to keep everything familiar and comforting around her always, and the need to sprout wings of her own and fly away.

Around them, the world is moving at breakneck pace, growing and changing. But Downton Abbey is untouched by it all, and every day dawns and melts into the next. They keep track of time by the arrival of the paper, the ringing of the dressing gong and little else. There are no grand romances and no whispered scandal to keep them occupied, and even the season in London turns out to be a pallid reflection of its old self.

By Christmas, the afterglow from Mary's wedding is gone. Even when her sister visits, which is often, the light of her happiness does not reflect on Edith. Indeed, Mary's joy is like the pale sun in winter for her sister. It's there to be seen, a real thing, but its rays don't quite touch her.

Snow, earlier than usual, blankets Downton, and Edith decides to take a walk. She sticks a hand out, watching as snowflakes flit onto her glove before melting. She's become a snowflake herself, singular, ephemeral, invisible. She's fading, a shadow of herself. If things don't change, she thinks, she'll disappear altogether. _I have to get out of here. _

-00-

_Spring 1922_

Papa buys her a horse for Christmas. It is an extravagant gift, but he recognizes her need to keep busy, and Edith treasures the chance. She names him Thorn, because it fits his personality and because she thinks it might be a metaphor for her own life. The routine of grooming and riding takes up a part of each day, and Edith takes the rest of the time to explore the estate. Each time she rides out, new things catch her eye. Sometimes it's just a stretch of trees she's never seen before, other times it's the storm damage to the farmers' cottages.

On one of these rides, she spies a dark figure leaning on a shed wall, looking suspicious. A closer inspection reveals Thomas, recently elevated to valet. When he sees her, he startles and pulls his hands behind his back, hiding something.

Amused, she pulls Thorn up, and after a few moments of hesitation, Thomas helps her off and takes the reins.

She nods him her thanks. "Don't stop what you were doing on my account, Thomas." He makes no response and she wonders at the years of training it takes to remain without expression or humour for hours every day. She tries to draw him out. "I suppose I should call you Mr. Barrow now."

His cautious indifference falters, and he gives her a crooked half-smile. "You can still call me Thomas, my lady."

"What are you doing out here?"

He keeps his eyes fixed on the path ahead. "His lordship didn't need my services after breakfast, so I thought I'd take a walk."

Edith raises an eyebrow, skeptical. She's rewarded a moment later with a smirk and Thomas's raised hand. He's holding a still-burning cigarette.

"Ah." Edith nods. She's always wondered about cigarettes, about the way the cloying sweetness of tobacco hangs in the air long after the flame's been snuffed out, the way O'Brien smells sometimes. Curious, she puts out her hand. "Would you mind if I tried?"

Thomas looks stricken and his mouth falls open. "I don't think—"

"I won't tell anyone. If you're worried…"

The notion that he might be anything less than wholly indifferent irks Thomas, and predictably, he pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and hands it to her, putting the old one to his lips. She mimics his movements, holding the thin roll of paper between her fingers and bringing it to her mouth. She inhales but nothing happens, save the cigarette growing limp from the wet press of her lips.

Thomas laughs. "You have to light it first, Lady Edith."

Indignant, Edith tries to recover. "Yes, of course. I was only…testing it."

He raises an eyebrow and then surprises her by taking the cigarette from her fingers. He holds it up to the tip of his own and puffs until the end of her cigarette glows red. When he hands it back to her, he keeps his hand cupped around the end, an oddly intimate gesture that puts Edith on edge.

She pulls the cigarette from his hand and brings it to her mouth, ignoring the advice he's giving her. The acrid smoke hits the back of her throat, and in an instant, Edith is doubled over, coughing violently to expel it. It takes a while to catch her breath, but as she comes back to herself, she can feel a tingling sensation, a sort of euphoria she hasn't really felt since Patrick died all those years ago. _It can't be the cigarette. Can it?_

She casts a questioning glance at Thomas, but he only shrugs. Edith takes in a deep breath and braces herself before taking another drag at the cigarette. This time she follows his instructions to the letter, and soon, a pleasant calm descends on her. Her nerves stop jangling, her doubt recedes. She feels like a new woman.

-00-

By summer, it's become a routine. Once or twice a week—because more would arouse suspicion—Edith rides out somewhere and winds up at the shed. Thomas is always there, waiting, with two cigarettes at the ready.

She's not sure what the draw is. It is escape, of course, and that is a thrill all its own, but there is more here. There is the excitement of breaking the rules, of doing the unexpected, and Edith is exhilarated. Thomas too is the perfect companion. He says little, offers no judgment, and keeps her secret. It's all she can ask of him.

At first, she tries to probe him a little, to find out what he's made of. But Thomas, not particularly forthcoming, keeps the conversation focused on her, and she stops asking, content to just let the smoke fill the silence.

Today, however, is different.

"So," she begins, between drags. "Mr. Bates won his appeal. He might be coming back."

Thomas mumbles a response, his eyes fixed on something across the road.

"Will you stay on? If he comes back to be Papa's valet again?"

"Don't know. Probably not." He snuffs his cigarette out against the shed and pockets the butt, careful not to litter. "Maybe I'll go to America."

"America?"

For the first time in as long as Edith can remember, Thomas looks her right in the eye. "Yes. America. It's not like here. You can start out as a footman and become the master before you die. Nobody cares what you are. You can lose yourself, become a new man."

He fiddles with his gloves, an unusually nervous gesture. "It was Mrs. Levinson who gave me the idea."

"Grandmamma told you go to America?" Edith regrets the mocking tone in her voice, but at least it covers her surprise at knowing her grandmother took the time to advice her father's valet.

"She didn't say that exactly."

Edith smirks. "You mean you were eavesdropping."

Thomas shrugs off his discomfort. "Maybe. We're not meant to hear anything, of course, but we're not deaf."

Her scorn dies on her lips. She wonders at all the things she's said in front of the servants with little regard for their feelings. In this at least, Mary and Sybil have always been wiser. She feels callous now, small before Thomas. She tries to think of an appropriate apology, a kindness that will blunt the edge of her behavior, but before she narrows it down, Thomas's voice breaks into her thoughts.

"Why are you doing this?"

The question is direct, and from Edith's view, too familiar. She bristles a little, but she's still feeling the sting of taking the servants for granted. She shrugs, trying to make light of things. "I don't know. A bit of fun, I suppose.

"And I'm enjoying all this," she adds, waving at the space between them. Too late, she sees the smirk lifting the corners of Thomas's mouth.

"Careful." Thomas mock-chides her. "Today, we're only sharing a cigarette. Tomorrow it might be a kiss."

Edith goggles at him, shocked at his presumption. But the twinkle of mischief is hard to resist and a moment later, she's laughing instead. "I don't think there's anything to worry about, Thomas. You're not my type." _And if the rumours are true, I'm certainly not your type!_

The smirk stays on Thomas's face a moment longer, but it peters out, and Edith feels a sudden need to be understood, by someone, anyone, even Thomas.

She takes a long drag and exhales slowly, choosing her words. "Have you ever seen an aquarium?"

He clears his throat. "Yes, my lady. There used to be one in the hall here."

"Yes, of course. Sorry, I'd forgotten all about that." She shuffles her feet absently. "The thing is, I've always felt bad for those fish. They're so pretty, and we stare at them, just to amuse ourselves. But their whole world is just that tank. They must want to jump out now and then."

Thomas gives her a frank look. "Do you know what happens to fish when they're out of water, Lady Edith? They thrash around and struggle to breath. Then they die."

She gives him a sharp look, payment for his presumption and for the cruel directness of his words. Wisely, he says no more. Edith drops the cigarette and crushes it into the ground with the heel of her boot. "Don't be so dramatic, Thomas. It's only a cigarette."

He picks the butt up, careful to pat down the divot Edith's raised. "If you want to jump out of your fish tank, there are other ways."

Edith raises an eyebrow at him, worried that he's misjudged her attention, that he's about to propose an elopement or something equally scandalous. Her voice shakes with panic. "Like what?"

"Like America."

Edith gapes at him, relieved, but certain he's mocking her. "I should go to America? To lose myself?" She guffaws to punctuate the absurdity of the suggestion.

Thomas glances at her once before politely turning his gaze elsewhere. What he leaves unsaid hangs in the air between them, as dense as cigarette smoke. _To lose yourself, you have to find yourself first._

-00-

_Two months later_

"America? What a ridiculous notion!" Violet Crawley's voice echoes through the solar of the dower house.

"Oh, granny. It's only for a little while. A chance to do something new and different." Edith lets her voice trail away, hoping to mollify more than persuade.

"You were always so clever, Edith. Couldn't you find something else that's new and different? Something in England?"

Edith is oddly touched by her grandmother's insistence that she stay close to home, although she suspects it is more disdain for her mother's family than affection for her that drives Violet's thoughts. "If you must know, I thought about going to university first."

"University? What on earth for?"

"To study, of course. You know, the vicar's daughter is off to read history at St. Hilda's."

"Yes, and tomorrow, the grocer's daughter will stand for Parliament! That doesn't mean it's appropriate."

Edith chuckles. "Well, you needn't worry about that, granny. I'm not going to university."

"I'm not sure America is any better. And Cincinnati? Do you even know where that is?"

"Er, I've looked at some maps. It's in the middle bit. In Ohio."

"Ohio? Sounds ghastly."

Edith sips quietly at her tea, stifling her laughter.

Violet bangs her cane on the ground just a bit harder than necessary. "Did your mother put you up to this?"

"No, of course not. In fact, I think Mama would rather have me stay, now that Mary and Sybil are both out of the house." Her father had agreed, however, once she'd explained to him how she truly felt. He'd neither encouraged her decision nor thwarted it, but the look of worry never left his face.

"When do you leave?"

"In about two months. Papa's trying to book my passage right now, and I'm writing to Aunt Rosamund to see if she might know of someone I could travel with."

Violet nods, as if these are the first sane words she's heard all afternoon. "Well, I suppose your mind's made up, and there's nothing for it now. But do be careful, Edith. America is full of cow hands and traders, and I daresay we don't want them to dinner."

(TBC)


	4. Chapter 4: Part III: Letters

**Part III. Letters Across The Atlantic**

Glen Cove, Long Island, New York

22nd August, 1922

Dear Sybil-

I meant to write to you from the ship, but the voyage was rocky, and my cabin never stood still long enough for me to finish a letter! Now that I'm safe ashore, I can take pride in my penmanship once again.

I'm glad to hear that things are beginning to settle down for you, and that the worst of the troubles in Ireland seem to be over. We still hold out hope there may be an easy and peaceful solution to the republican question, but I can't help but agree with Tom that freedom may be the only answer that will satisfy everyone.

The journey was mostly without incident, except for all the excitement over a gentleman who jumped overboard three days out from Southampton. Luckily, one of the crew jumped in and rescued him. Everyone on board agreed that the poor man was not so much suicidal as drunk and a good dip in the cold sea was probably just what he needed.

Aunt Rosamund arranged for me to travel with Mrs. Edith McLane, an American traveling back to New York. I was expecting a gray-haired matronly sort, but Edith—very well-named, if you ask me—and her husband Allan turned out to be a newlyweds on their way back from honeymoon. We got on so well they invited me to stay with them in New York for a few days before going on to see Grandmama in Ohio.

In fact, I'm writing to you from Edith's father's estate on Long Island. The house is called "The Braes" and it's nearly as big as Downton. It's a large house and Edith's family has a lovely collection of artwork. I can't say I care for their taste in furniture though. Most of it looks like it might have been stolen from a Tudor manor. Granny would find it all utterly vulgar, I imagine!

Edith's father, Mr. Herbert Pratt, is one of those American oil barons Papa talks about, and the house certainly suggests oil is good business. The gardens here are lovely, and the ocean is barely a few feet from the back end of the house. It's a bit like that time we all went to Brighton years ago, but without the annoyance of cousin Patrick kicking sand in our faces every few minutes. Speaking of Patrick, a number of people here in New York still remember him well, which is both heartening and wrenching, as it were. I'm sure Papa would be proud to know his nephew was so well regarded.

The Pratts are fond of parties and the celebrations here in Long Island are lavish, a bit like the season in London, but not quite so stiff. The people here, especially the younger ones, are determined to put the past few years behind them. But where we are a bit melancholy and reflective about the war, our American cousins are busy trying to forget it all. They approach life headlong, determined to beat it into submission with their happiness. I've never seen such free spirits, Sybil!

I'm off to Ohio next week, and I promise to write about all my adventures there just as soon as I can. Give baby Patricia a kiss from her best auntie.

Yours ever,

Edith

-00-

London, England

10th October, 1922

Edith, how lovely to get a letter from you! I know you and Mama exchange regular notes, but though she's been filling us in on your adventures, it's much nicer to hear of them from you. Tom and I were both impressed at how well-observed your letters are. He thinks you have a gift, and were it not for circumstance, you'd be a better journalist than he is.

From my own end, I have such news! As you can see, I'm writing this from London. Tom wasn't too pleased to leave Ireland, right in the middle of the sort of great political upheaval journalists like to write about. But even with the war over, the unionists are still firm in their opposition to Mr. Valera and his republican ideals, and Tom and I both felt it would be safer to return to England.

Tom's taken a post here as special Ireland correspondent. We've a small house, and for all his protest, I think he's tolerating England as well as he ever has. It's been a bit of an adjustment for me and baby Patsy as well, but we're slowly getting used to our new lives. She keeps me quite busy now that she's walking a bit, although she mostly just falls down a lot. I'm trying to keep a toe in politics as well. I've spoken with the women's suffrage group here in East London, and I think I might do some canvassing for them this year. Papa is appalled but bearing up well. Granny thinks I've joined the Bolsheviks!

By now you've probably heard Mary's sad news about the miscarriage. It's taken her a while to recover, not helped at all by Mama treating her like an invalid. But Dr. Clarkson suggested she get away for a while, and Matthew and Mary have gone to Manchester. They're to attend the wedding of Matthew's cousin, but we think the real reason is something else altogether. Matthew's been hinting that he plans to contest for Parliament from there, and we think he might be using this visit to test the waters a bit. I like the idea, and I think Mary would rather enjoy being an MP's wife, don't you? I envy her a little, and maybe I'll use her future clout as a way to further my own ambitions.

Papa hears rumors that Parliament intends to repeal the entail laws at its next session, something he's in not in favour of, as it means Matthew will be disinherited. But as Mary will be Countess, I can't imagine anyone is too cut up about it, least of all Matthew himself.

Tom and I were at Downton two weeks ago for Granny's birthday—she appreciated your gift very much, even though we're not sure she really knew what it was! The house is lovely as always, if a bit chaotic. There are two new footmen now, a new groom in the stables, and a new maid to replace Anna, as she and Mr. Bates have left service. Papa was more than happy to take him back, but Mr. Bates didn't feel it was appropriate for him to remain as valet given everything that's happened. He has aspirations of being a publican, of all things, and he and Anna are to buy a small boarding house just north of Malton, with a bit of help from Papa. Granny says it's all downright scandalous, but I think she's secretly pleased they've found a new life.

We'll be back at Downton for Christmas this year, and I think Mama and Papa are rather happy that they'll get to spoil the baby in person. Aunt Rosamund is coming up with us from London, and I do hope Mary, Matthew and cousin Isobel will join in too.

Of course, I'm disappointed that you won't be with us. Everyone at Downton misses you, Edith. Sir Anthony asked after you at dinner recently, as did Mr. Carson. Thomas passed on a rather cryptic message as well. He wanted to know if your experiment with the fish tank was going well. Have you turned into a scientist in America then? Or a spy perhaps?

I look forward to hearing all about Ohio. Our best to Grandmamma, and kisses to you.

All my love,

Sybil

-00-

Indian Hills, Cincinnati, Ohio

22nd November 1922

Dear Sybil-

It was lovely to hear from you, as always. I can't believe you're a proper Londoner now, and maybe even a Bolshevik! You do have a knack for making the rest of us seem so ordinary by comparison.

I arrived in Cincinnati by train, at the end of a long and dusty journey, amply covered in oil and soot. I half-expected Grandmama to turn me away at the door! Happily, she didn't seem to mind that her English visitor looked a bit like a street urchin. She's an interesting sort. When she was at Downton, I thought she was a bit cold and distant, making me wonder where Mama had inherited her warmth and good humor from. But in her own surroundings, Grandmama's quite different, very frank and very American, if you know what I mean.

Her house is in a place called Indian Hills, just outside the city. It's a bit sleepy here and reminds me of Downton on a particularly slow day. The house itself is rather nice, though Grandmama's tastes are old-fashioned and not in a good way. She has a cook and a housekeeper, but no lady's maid, and her driver is also her gardener. Speaking of gardening, she likes to potter about outside, weeding and planting. It's charming and odd, much as Granny once described her. And can you even imagine Granny tending to her own roses?

Grandmama has taken it on herself to introduce me to the people in her circle. They're mostly neighbors and old friends. But I've met a few relatives as well, and goodness, I had no idea Mama had so many cousins. They've all been very kind, but one in particular, Miss Camilla Leibowitz (Millie) has become a good friend in just a short time. Grandmama told me that Cousin Millie's grandfather apparently owns half of a place called Poughkeepsie in New York state, but to hear Millie tell it, that's a bit like owning a very fancy motor that has no wheels!

Cincinnati is, much like Grandmama, both charming and odd. At first, I expected it to be a lot like New York, if a bit smaller. But the city seems unsure of what it wants to be. There are parts that bustle like London, all noise and industry, motor cars whizzing here and there. In other parts, the streets are wide and untraveled, except for the occasional horse-and-carriage. There is a bit of unrest here as well and tension among the races is obvious in some parts of the city.

You've probably read about Prohibition in the papers. I don't know enough to say more, but making people give up even a bit of their drink seems to force them to even greater amounts of drunkenness. People in Cincinnati seem especially given to breaking the law, and quite openly and brazenly at that. Millie and her fiance Frank (who is very well-read and sincere, but a bit wet, if you know what I mean) are regulars at the local speakeasies, and she drags me along whenever she can. These speakeasies are like underground cocktail parties where everyone drinks and dances until the sun comes up in the morning. It's all a bit debauched really, but very entertaining just the same, especially as the whiff of illegality seems only to add to all the excitement.

As you can imagine, I'm despondent that I'll be missing Christmas at Downton. Winter was always my favorite time of year, and I'm sure the grounds and the house are looking as festive as ever. I miss you all very much. Do remember me over pudding, won't you?

Yours ever,

Edith


	5. Chapter 5: Wealth, Fame and The Art

**Part IV. Wealth, Fame, and The Art of Being English**

She gives her cocktail glass a skeptical look. The color is wrong, and though Edith is no connoisseur, she's certain it smells a bit off too. But her grandmother is watching through eyes narrowed in anticipation. Edith decides that's a little is probably not lethal and takes a small sip. She ignores the burning sensation and nods politely.

"It's lovely, Grandmama! I can hardly believe you made it yourself!"

A loud guffaw of laughter comes from the other side of the room. "You're too polite, Edith." Harold Levinson sets his glass down and shakes his head. "It tastes like you grew plums in a smelly sock, Mother."

Grandmama makes a sound that's a cross between a grunt and a chuckle. "It's the best gin Prohibition ever bought."

"Why are you even making this? It's beneath you."

His mother huffs in amusement. "Nonsense. A woman has to do something with herself."

Harold directs a raised eyebrow at her. "At your age, maybe you should try something more appropriate than bathtub gin."

She shakes her head in a way Edith now recognizes as dismissal rather than disapproval. "Now that I've been told I'm an old woman, I think I'll go to bed." She sidles off towards the stairs in mock anger, and Harold follows after her, clucking his tongue and muttering under his breath.

Edith laughs until she realizes that she's all alone in the room, a breach of etiquette that would never have happened at Downton. _I suppose that's a good thing_, she muses, her eyes wandering around the room.

The dark paneling and the heavy fabric of the drapes remind her of Papa's study, but there are no grand shelves of books in her grandmother's parlor, and even the furniture is sparse, with just a desk and two end tables arranged around two chairs and a sofa. Over the fireplace mantle, there is a glass-domed clock and two photographs in identical frames. The first she recognizes as a picture from her parents' wedding, with Papa's expression as familiar as it is dour.

The second is more intriguing, a decades-old portrait of her mother's family. She picks it up and nearly drops it a second later when she hears Harold's footsteps behind her.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Edith recovers and settles the picture back into its place on the mantle. "No. It's just…I've never seen that one before."

Harold leans over and peers closely at the picture. "That's at Pine Bough, in…" His voice trails off as he tries to remember. "Oh, '85 or '86, I think. Before Cora met Robert anyway. We had this summer cottage up in Mackinac, on Lake Huron. Father liked to pretend he was a great timber baron." He laughs, and Edith joins in, not letting on the joke is lost on her.

She picks up the frame again, running a finger over her mother's image. "I never noticed before how much Sybil looks like Mama."

"Yes, she does. And I think Mary's all Robert, isn't she?" At this, Edith's fingers still. Even in this, the lottery of family resemblance, she's been left out somehow.

"You're the lucky one though," Harold continues. "You look just like she did back then." He taps the photograph, pointing to his mother. "Right down to the red hair."

Edith raises an eyebrow at him and turns her attention back to the picture, studying her grandmother closely this time. The dress is conservative but suggests wealth and her hair is pinned back under a wide hat, as dictated by the day's fashions. There's a smile on Martha's face that suggests both determination and contentment, and on second glance, Edith thinks she can see a bit of herself in the other woman. _The power of suggestion at work…_

Her grandfather remains an enigma, however. His face is serious, already lined by age and worry, and his smile is inscrutable, as if he practiced it until it conveyed nothing of him at all.

"What was he like? Grandpapa?"

Harold hesitates. It's only a moment, but Edith thinks she sees a flash of bitterness on his face before he lapses back into his usual good-natured expression. "He was clever, strong. Very ambitious. Determined to get what he wanted, whether it was his business, this house, or even a girl from Rhode Island."

"Grandmama?"

Harold nods. "It was a huge scandal back then. See, he was much older than she was, and her family wasn't too happy about the marriage."

_Older_? Edith stores that bit of information away, certain she might find it useful someday. "Did they not care about…well, the other thing?"

Harold laughs. "I love how polite you English are about everything. To answer your question, yes, they did care. She was a Lawton, and Lawtons didn't marry Jewish dry goods merchants from Ohio."

"Did they elope then?"

"No, no. Father was a very successful man, and money usually makes up for religious differences, I find. But they did cut her off at first. Mother never really forgave them for that." He grows thoughtful, scratching his chin. "I think that's why she was so determined that Cora should go to England and marry an aristocrat. She was going to show the world that Isidore Levinson's daughter could be a duchess one day."

"Countess."

Harold laughs. "I don't think it matters much what word you use. All you lords and ladies are the same to us on this side of the ocean."

"And what about you? No English aristocrat catch your fancy then?" She knows this is impolite, that this is the wrong thing to ask kin, but the impulse to know is irresistible.

He seems not to mind and answers slowly. "I never wanted to be married. Not the way Mother wanted, just for money and status. I wanted a girl to like me for my own sake." Harold smiles sadly. "But no girl ever did."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. When I was young, all my ideas of the world were wrong. I had to learn to like myself before I could make them like me."

-00-

Edith lies in bed, staring at the winter shadows scattered across her bedroom walls. Her uncle's words play in her mind like a stuck phonograph. _I had to learn to like myself. _But she hears them in Sir Anthony's voice, a reminder from across the oceans.

Frustrated, she gets out of bed, wanting to banish the man and his words from her mind. She begins to write Sir Anthony a letter, a long missive filled with the things she ought to tell him in person, but even as her pen scratches across the paper, she knows she will never send it. Resigned, Edith sets the pen down and folds the unfinished letter into a neat square and shoves it into the back of her desk drawer.

She thinks about the other letters she's hidden away. In the bottom of her steamer trunk is a stack of paper, letters tied together with a ribbon and a swathe of girlish hope. They are mostly just notes from Patrick, little scribbles he'd sent her from school, and later, serious observations he'd made while at university. She'd read every line until they were burned into her memory, giving the words deeper meaning than Patrick had probably ever intended.

Edith digs the letters out, noting how the paper is frayed from too much folding and unfolding, how Patrick's scrawl, so defiantly crooked, is starting to fade. Memory pricks at her, but its edge is blunt and she realizes she's held on to him too long.

The fire in the grate is at low ebb, but still burning. She takes in a sharp breath and chucks the bundle of paper into the flames. _It's time to grow up. _

- 00-

Edith takes a long look in the mirror. The woman who stares back at her seems strange. The face is her own, of course, but everything else feels tacked on, a figment of her imagination. Her ginger hair is cropped close now and there are bursts of bright color on her cheeks and lips that she never would have dared at Downton. The dress she's wearing is new and shows off her pale English complexion. _I look nice, but nobody at home would even recognize me._

"You look really spiffy." Millie's reflection appears next to hers in the mirror, a little frown of concentration between the brows. "But something's missing." She fidgets with Edith's dress and hair before her face lights up. She pulls off the long string of black pearls from her own neck and drops it over Edith's head.

"There. That's much better."

Edith fingers the necklace for a moment. "Are you sure? They looked rather nice on you."

"They look _rather nice_ with your dress too." Millie laughs. "You slay me with that accent of yours. Everyone in Cincinnati wants to sound like you."

Edith joins in the laughter with caution. She and Millie are the same age, but the other woman is less grounded. She's constantly cheerful in a way Edith exhausting and just a bit frightening. With Millie,all the boundaries of polite society, the fences that define Edith's life disappear. It feels like she's being thrust into a cold world that is too big for her comfort.

She shakes off the cloying dread. "So where are we going tonight?"

"We're going to this party at The Vernon, for cousin Teddie's birthday. And then Frank found this new juice joint down by the-"

"Teddie?" Edith searches her mental record for all her recently introduced relatives and draws a blank. "Do I know him?"

"Her." Millie gives her a puzzled look. "Didn't Aunt Martha tell you about Teddie?"

Edith shakes her head, curious as to the mystery cousin. Millie's smirks. "Well, you'll like Teddie, I bet. Everyone else does." She straightens her own dress in the mirror and dismisses any more questions with a quick glance at the clock. "We should go. The Vernon's pretty ritzy. Won't let us in if we're late."

–00-

The Vernon is indeed pretty ritzy. Everything at the hotel shines in that too-bright way that Edith now thinks of as American. The ostentation is raw, well-matched by the dress and high spirits of the party guests. Edith feels awkward, and it's not until a cocktail is thrust into her hand that she recovers.

"C'mon, let's go meet Teddie." Millie pulls her along, towards a line that's formed around the evening's guest of honor.

Millie kisses Teddie and then introduces Edith with mock fanfare. "May I present my cousin, Miss Edith Crawley, all the way from England."

Teddie smiles and sticks out her hand. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you."

Edith takes the hand, awestruck. "You...you're Theda Bara!"

"So I am." She lets Edith's hand go, but holds her gaze, expectant. Edith finally looks away, not sure what to say or do.

"Er, happy birthday! This is...quite the celebration."

Teddie leans closer and drops her voice to a loud whisper. "I'll tell you a secret. It's not really my birthday. But it's a good excuse for a party." She points to Edith's glass. "And you drink up so we can top you off again!"

A moment later, Teddie's attention is drawn elsewhere, and Edith finds herself alone with an empty glass. Millie's fiance Frank waves her over to his corner, and grateful that she's not alone, Edith joins him.

"Hello, Frank." She notices his hands are empty and raises her own empty glass in his direction. "New round for both of us?"

He frowns and acknowledges her greeting with a polite nod and a shake of his head. "It's illegal, you know."

Edith tries to remember all her lessons in polite conversation and changes the subject. "Millie said you were out dancing till sunrise yesterday." The words are out of her mouth too quickly, and knowing _dancing_ is probably a euphemism, she worries she may have accused Frank of _something_.

But he shrugs it off and Edith is grateful she doesn't have to apologize. She's not quite sure what to make of him. He's tall and pale, neither in a particularly attractive way. The cut of his suit suggests a distinct lack of wealth, but Grandmama insists he has a stellar education and a bright future in banking. His affection for Millie is sincere too, and as Millie seems to love him in return, Edith decides he can't be all bad.

"So how do all these parties have so many cocktails when drinking is against the law?" she asks, swirling her cocktail in its glass, expecting this to draw Frank out.

"Ah, see," he says, jabbing a finger at the air around him. "Drinking's not illegal, and you can make your own, like your grandmother." He screws up his face in a way that reminds Edith just how dreadful Grandmama's brew is. "But you can't buy or sell it, except for the bonded kind from the drug store. This stuff," he adds, pointing to her glass, "is all bootleg. They sneak it from Canada, or sometime it's just the bonded stuff. The distillery owners steal it, see, and then they sell it to the gin joints."

"Don't they get caught?"

"Sure." Frank gives her a long hard stare followed by a watery grin that sets Edith on edge. "Let's just say the cops aren't all on the up and up. And neither is City Hall."

He waves at the other end of the room. "Oh, look. There's Millie." He takes hold of Edith's elbow and steers her through the crowd much as Millie had done before. Edith resents it a little and pulls her elbow away, rubbing at it as Millie takes her hand.

"Are you alright? Did Frank bore your ear off?"

Frank gives her a sheepish smile and shrugs and Edith returns the smile and shakes her head. "No, of course not. Perfect gentleman, your Frank."

Millie laughs and then gives Edith a wink. "Well, I hope he's not too much of a gentleman. That wouldn't be a whole ton of fun."

"Oh, Millie. I should bring you back to England and introduce you to my grandmother."

"England?" A voice cuts through the crowd. "Did someone say England?"

A moment later, Edith is face-to-face with a stranger on Teddie's arm. "Edith, this is my husband. He's English. Or at least he used to be. I think it's just a hobby now."

While Edith is mulling over the idea of how a person can be English as a pastime, the man shakes her hand vigorously. "Charles Brabin. From Los Angeles, by way of Liverpool."

"You don't sound very English, if you don't mind my saying so."

"I've been here a long time now, talking to Americans. Marrying them," he adds with a smile towards his wife. She's busy talking to another guest, so Brabin's attention returns to Edith. "So where are you from, Miss...er?"

"Crawley. And I'm from Downton. It's a small place in-"

"Yorkshire." A man's voice, strangely familiar, finishes her sentence. She turns around and gasps in surprise.

The speaker is unusually amused as he inclines his head politely in her direction. "Lady Edith."

"Sir Richard! What are you doing here?"

-00-


End file.
